


Left Behind

by kuragin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Multi, Pining, Purge AU, Rating May Change, enjolras is allergic to fear and also does not know her, no major character death probably, we have enough death in this fandom already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuragin/pseuds/kuragin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Purge AU. Set today. Grantaire is terrifying. Enjolras is terrified. Marius refuses to shut his fucking mouth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. -39:00:00

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Calmjolras?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is! The brand-new Chapter 1! Junior Sienna bringing you what sophomore Sienna could not! Help me!

Enjolras was calm.

At least, that's what he told himself (repeatedly, under his breath). Jehan had taught him how to do that, and it was _working_ , dammit.

Or, it would be. Soon.

" _I am calm, confident, and relaxed. I am calm, confident, and relaxed. I am c—_ "

"Jesus, you're up early."

Enjolras started, nearly dropping his coffee at the sight of Combeferre's large frame blocking the kitchen door, and sighed. " _I am calm, confident, and relaxed_ ," he mumbled, bracing himself on the kitchen counter behind him. "How the _fuck_ are you awake?"

"How the fuck are _you_ awake?"

Enjolras pushed on his eyelids hard enough to see the universe. "That’s fair."

Combeferre smirked. "No, _I’m_ ‘Ferre."

Enjolras' hand worked its way from his eyes deep into his hair. "Please _—_ " His knees were shaking now, his whole body tense with the effort of holding itself up, "— _please_ get out of my kitchen."

"Enj. I've been covering your rent for, what, six months now? So, at the moment: my kitchen," he took a step onto the tile, crowding Enjolras even further into the counter, "my _cornflakes_ ," he indicated a half-full bowl on the counter to Enjolras' right, which, yeah, at least he'd been eating, "and _my coffee,_ " he finished, snatching the mug from Enjolras' hand in one smooth motion.

"'Ferre, _wait_ —"

Combeferre took a swig, his eyes going wide as he choked a little, forcing himself to swallow for both of their sakes. " _Shit_. Oh, my God."

“I _told_ you—”

“I mean. _Jesus_.”

Enjolras sighed. “Yeah.”

“What is this?” Combeferre asked, holding the mug as far away from him as the cramped space would allow.

“Coffee.”

“Try again.”

“... _Irish_ coffee?”

Combeferre would have laughed at not-four-in-the-morning. “You have yet to convince me there’s coffee in here at all.”

“It’s Grantaire’s recipe. From his blog. The, uh, alcohol one.”

“You don’t _read_ Grantaire’s blog.”

“I do. Sometimes.” Combeferre raised his eyebrows. “Fine, twice.”

“Why?”

“We’re all Grantaire when it comes down to it. I’m just accentuating some choice features.”

Combeferre’s eyes softened. “ _Enjolras_.”

“What? Might as well, right? We'll all be dead soon enough.” Enjolras laughed, and it sounded too _real_ , too genuine to be his. It hit Combeferre clean through his chest, and he could have sworn he felt his morale fold in on itself and bleed out on the tile.

“Enj, you can talk to me. To any of us,” he tried, reaching out to put a hand on Enjolras’ arm.

Enjolras flinched from his touch, the newly-kindled fire in his eyes only just disguising the wince as his back collided with the marble counter. Anyone but Combeferre would have been oblivious. “There’s nothing to talk about. I am _calm_ ,” he said, grabbing the mug, "I am  _confident_ ,” he downed its contents in one go, ignoring Combeferre’s wide-eyed horror, “ _and I am_ _relaxed_.”

Combeferre barely managed to shield his face in time for Enjolras to slam the empty mug on the counter, shattering it in all directions. He looked up to hear a door slam from somewhere in the apartment—certainly not for the first time, Combeferre realized, making a mental note to apologize to the neighbors before tomorrow night. They seemed nice enough, he supposed, but you could never be too careful.

Combeferre sighed, crouching to pick up some of the larger shards from the floor. “Damn,” he mumbled, “I actually kind of liked this mug.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you for some reason want to see the original chapter 1 (some shit writing & Literally an entirely different scene) or just want to say hi, leave a comment or hmu at greatcomets.tumblr.com!! Thanks for reading :)


	2. -29:06:02

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> maybe-not-so-calmjolras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> fun fact!! i in no way think that grantaire acts like this usually. these are special circumstances and our boys will go back to normal when the story does (same goes for enj in both chapters + ferre in ch. 1)!! you didn't really Need to know this but i just. felt like you did. so. enjoy!!

Enjolras stumbled into the Musain four and a half minutes late.

(A new record, as Joly had been about to point out until Combeferre cut him off with a glare that clearly said _I will burn everything you own_ , and, well.

This wasn’t the day to challenge a thing like that.)

“Hi. Sorry. Let’s, uh... let’s get started.” Enjolras grabbed their makeshift podium (Courfeyrac’s handiwork—or, as it was called every time it fell apart, Courfeyrac’s fault) and pulled himself onto the café bench behind it.

This was good. He felt taller (an easy feat), and calmer, and more confident, and more of whatever the other one was. Probably. He didn’t know. Not that it mattered, anyway. No, what mattered now was this:

“You all know what’s coming tomorrow night. In twenty-nine hours,” he checked his watch, “zero minutes, and two—no, wait. Twenty-eight. Twenty-eight hours and fifty-nine minutes left. _Jesus,_ ” he said, scrubbing his face down with his hand, “I just— _God_. No, sorry. Okay.”

He cleared his throat. “It’s unethical. It’s immoral. _E_ _very part of me_ is screaming that it’s fundamentally wrong. But that’s why we’re here, isn’t it? We’re trying to _change_ things—to change the _world_ , and—”

A crash sounded off the walls, pounding on Enjolras’ eardrums and sending what little reason he had left flying. This was it; he’d set his alarm wrong, they _all_ had, and now they were going to _die_ —

and now they were going to get _killed_ —

and now people were going to _murder_ them—

and then Courfeyrac was saying something, and Enjolras looked— _r_ _eally_ looked—at the back of the room, and. Oh.

Grantaire. Courfeyrac was talking to Grantaire. Courfeyrac was talking to Grantaire and Grantaire was on the floor and he was surrounded by _empty fucking cans_ , Enjolras realized, and he may not have screamed out loud but he could feel the sound pounding at the inside of his skin.

The man in question looked up from his spot on the floor, laughing like a madman, or an idiot, or _something_. Enjolras didn’t know which, but Grantaire was starting to make him feel like both.

Enjolras tripped on his way down from the podium, clipping Bahorel on the shoulder as he stumbled to the back of the room. His blood was thrumming in his ears and stopping his throat and as he stood, towering over Grantaire and his fucking _crossed legs_ , he realized that he had _never_ —and this was saying a lot—wanted to strangle anyone more.

 _Technically, in just over twenty-eight hours..._ he started to think.

“ _No,_ ” he breathed. “ _God_ , no.”

_I am calm, confident, and relaxed. I am calm, confident, and relaxed. I am calm, confident, and—_

And maybe he was, but Grantaire was still laughing, and that _just_ —

“ _No_ ,” said Enjolras, more forcefully this time, and he thanked himself for believing it.

Courfeyrac cleared his throat from across the room. “ _Again_ , Grantaire? That has to be the third time this month.” He stood up, laughing shakily. “Here, let me—“

“ _Stop_.” Enjolras heard Courfeyrac still behind him. _Good_. He kept his eyes on Grantaire, who apparently thought this was the funniest _fucking_ thing in the world. “Do you think this is a game?”

Grantaire brought his eyes up to meet Enjolras’. Enjolras imagined death. “Look. Apollo,” he said slowly, trying his very hardest not to slur, “People want me dead. You’d be fuckin’...you’d be _floored_ by how many people legitimately just wanna put me in the ground. Or a river, or, like, a lake, or, or fuck knows where else. And in less than two days they’ll have an excuse, and that’s—” he swallowed, “—that’s _fucked_ , sure. But in the meantime, I’d love it if you could just act like I wasn’t your—fuck. Your damn boulder. With the guy. And the hill—Feuilly?”

“Sisyphus,” said Feuilly’s voice from wherever he was keeping the rest of himself far out of sight.

“ _Fuck_ , you’re so right. Apollo, stop acting like that dude. And let me spend my last day _at peace_.”

Feuilly finally emerged from his spot behind Bahorel, brow furrowed, to look Grantaire over. “Grantaire—and I mean this in the nicest possible way, I promise—but if you— _you_ —are past remembering _Sisyphus_ , we might need to call an ambulance.”

“ _Shhh_. I’m at _peace_.”

“Are you kidding me, dude? Like, I think you’re gonna die.”

Enjolras spun around, grabbing hold of his last shred of dignity in the form of the closest chair. “ _Shut up_. Stop enabling him.”

(Feuilly considered refusing, but decided that he would rather live to see where his life went from there.)

_Clap. Clap. Clap._

Enjolras turned, _slowly_ , to lock eyes with Grantaire, who was smiling— _happy_ smiling, Enjolras noticed, feeling a wave of nausea tear through his sense of self—and clapping as painfully slowly as Enjolras imagined he physically could.

“ _Well_ done. Color me impressed.”

Enjolras took a step forward. “You think you’re going to die tomorrow.”

“I don’t _think_ anything, I _know_ —”

“ _You_ _think_ you’re going to die tomorrow, and you’re drinking—God, you don’t even _like_ beer—”

“ _I’ll have you know this is canned wine_ —”

“I mean, Jesus, _look_ at all of this! How are you even _alive_?”

“I was building Versailles, _Apollo_ , how do you not—”

“Do you seriously _need_ to call me that after I’ve told you _countless times_ —”

“I mean, come _on_ , at least like _half_ of these are old—”

“Somehow that doesn’t make it better, ' _Taire_ —”

“Oh, sure, go ahead, _sneer_ my name if it makes you feel better about yourself—”

“I ALREADY FEEL _GREAT_ ABOUT MYSELF—”

Grantaire laughed. “You’re just jealous ‘cause I’m at peace and you’re _not_.”

Enjolras stopped. Felt his mind leave his body.

Realized, offhand, that the true Apollo would have torn Grantaire apart by now.

Built a smile, brick by brick, until his face was the perfect picture of cruelty.

If Apollo was what Grantaire wanted, it would be wrong to leave him deprived.

“You call this at _peace_?” He said, taking another step. “ _This is not peace_. You may as well be dead already—Hell, you may as well have been dead _years_ ago.” He crouched down to Grantaire’s eye level; let the amusement he saw fuel him. “But it’s like you said. I don’t _think_ you’re going to die tomorrow. I _know_ you are.” He moved closer to Grantaire’s face.

“You’re going to die, Grantaire, and if I’m at all lucky, it’ll be because _I killed you_.”

The room went silent.

Enjolras stared into Grantaire’s eyes, searching for something—a reaction, _anything_ —and feeling his own heartbeat grow in insistence until he felt like air and he thought, without a hint of irony, that his headache had moved organs.

Finally, after an eternity, Grantaire leaned in—slowly, carefully—to speak in Enjolras’ ear.

“Careful, Enjolras. It’s not exactly the best time to be making enemies, is it?"

Enjolras’ eyes grew wide.

Grantaire leaned back and cocked his head to the side, staring up at Enjolras in awe.

Enjolras had never seen him look more sober.

“You’re not angry, are you?” Grantaire breathed. “You’re terrified.”

Enjolras ran out of the room as fast as he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hmu on tumblr at greatcomets or yikesglenn!!


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